Chapter Thirteen
I am going crazy.
Actually, scrub that.
I am crazy. Totally, utterly, back-in-college-doing-tequila-shots-on-acid crazy.
Gasping loudly, I grab my pillow and turn it over, trying to find a cool spot. Honestly, Emily, this is ridiculous. Agitated, I begin tossing and turning, causing the wooden bed frame to start squeaking violently. In the next room Rose bangs on the wall.
‘Do you mind!’ she complains loudly. ‘Some of us are trying to sleep.’
Great. Now I’m being accused of having sex. I wouldn’t mind if I was having sex, but I’m so not. I’m lying here, wearing fleecy pyjamas with cherries all over them and a plastic mouthguard to stop me from grinding my teeth, and thinking about meeting Mr Darcy this afternoon . . .
Did I just say meeting Mr Darcy?
Right, that’s enough. I’ve got to get up.
Grabbing my copy of Pride and Prejudice, I tug on my jeans and an old sweatshirt, and go downstairs. The hotel is quiet. Everyone else seems to be already in bed and fast asleep, I muse, padding into the deserted drawing room.
Lit by various lamps with the kind of tasselled lampshades your granny would have, and decorated with dozens more hunting scenes, the room has a surprisingly cosy feel to it.
It’s the antithesis to all those hip hotels you get in New York, with their minimalist modern furniture, bare steel and concrete designs.
Here, it’s chintz, chintz and more chintz, I muse, looking at the couple of lumpy-looking sofas over by the mullioned windows and an old button-back leather chair.
I, however, rather like it.
I walk over to the stone fireplace, where there’s a real fire. It’s died down, but there’s still a few logs glowing in the grate. Next to it I spy a stash of newspapers. Guilt stabs. God, I feel like such a philistine. This is my second day and I haven’t looked at a British newspaper yet.
Apart from the one today, but that was nearly two hundred years old, interrupts a voice in my head.
It gives me a little jolt, but I ignore it and, grabbing the Daily Times, cosy up on the leather armchair. Whoo-hoo, look at me, I feel like the lady of the manor, I think with amusement. Smiling to myself, I flick open the newspaper and begin scanning the pages for something interesting to read.
‘Lover of disgraced MP recalls affair’, ‘Nurses threaten strikes’, ‘￡3 million fraud case revealed’ . . .
Hmmm, it seems the news isn’t any different whichever side of the Atlantic you live on, just a mixture of gloom and gossip. Idly I begin scanning the various articles. Nothing sparks my interest. I flick over the lifestyle pages. I think I’ll carry on with my book as I’m just at the part where—
Spike Hargreaves.
The name jumps out at me from the newspaper.
I blink again and look at it. There, in small print, underneath an article about an Irish actor I’ve never heard of, are the words ‘Interview by staff writer, Spike Hargreaves’.
Wow, so he really is a proper journalist. The Daily Times, huh?
So it’s true. A begrudging sense of respect creeps over me.
I hate to admit it, but I’m rather impressed.
This isn’t some local rag, it’s a national newspaper.
Saying that, let’s not get too excited. After all, it’s not the New York Times, is it? It’s not that amazing. I chew my lip and eye the article. Part of me desperately wants to ignore it, to refuse to read it on principle. And yet . . .
C’mon, how can I resist?
Curiously, I begin reading, even though I have no clue who this actor is. Not that it matters. I just want to confirm that it’s badly written. As soon as I’ve established that I’ll stop. Which I’m sure will be only a matter of lines . . .
Hmmm. Actually, the introduction isn’t bad. But no matter, I’m sure it’s going to get worse.
Only it doesn’t. It just gets better. By the third paragraph I’m seriously impressed. Spike certainly has a distinctive voice. He’s neither effusive about his subject nor over-descriptive in his style; instead, it’s just good writing. Insightful, respectful and rather charming.
Damn. How disappointing. I really wanted to rip him to shreds.
Even worse, he’s really very funny in parts, I realise, giggling to myself. Who would have thought it? Alert the media. Spike Hargreaves has a good sense of humour.
‘Something funny?’
I look up to see the writer himself appear from behind my chair, nursing what looks like a large brandy.
‘Umm, no. Not really,’ I reply stiffly, furious with myself for being caught actually laughing at something he’s written.
‘Is that the Daily Times?’
‘I don’t know. Is it?’ I fib, pretending I hadn’t noticed. With a loud crunching of pages, I hurriedly shut the newspaper and stuff it down the side of the leather seat cushion in an attempt to get rid of the evidence.
Spike’s eyes glance from me to the newspaper. Then, without saying anything, he walks over to the fireplace, leans against the mantelpiece and, cradling the bowl of the glass, studies his brandy with careful consideration.
God, is he just going to stand there? Annoyed at the intrusion, I’m half tempted to get up and leave.
But my pride stops me. I was here first, so why should I?
And anyway, like I said, I’ve turned over a new leaf.
I’m not going to let him get to me any more.
I’m just going to carry on as if he’s not even here. Tra-la-la . . .
Nonchalantly I pick up Pride and Prejudice. Right, where am I? I scan the paragraphs. Oh, yes, here, where Darcy is beginning to pay attention to Elizabeth:
Occupied in observing Mr Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend.
Mr Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise.
Hmm, like some others I could mention. I’m still piqued by Spike’s comments about me on the coach yesterday.
But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.
To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying.
Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.
Spike clears his throat as if to say something, but I don’t look up. If he thinks he’s going to engage me in conversation with him, he can think again.
Resolutely, I keep reading.
Of this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.
‘You and I have got off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?’
For a stubborn moment I think about pretending I haven’t heard him, then I remember my new leaf. My mature, composed and infinitely cool new leaf.
Casually marking my page by turning over the corner, I close my book and look up.
Resting his chin on the rim of his glass, Spike’s fixed me with his pale blue eyes. I fidget under the spotlight of his attention.
‘The wrong foot?’ I repeat coolly.
‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ he explains.
‘I know what it is,’ I say crossly.
Watching me, he breaks into an amused smile, revealing a surprisingly neat row of white teeth.
For an English man, that is.
‘Apparently, it originates from the old days when people believed it was unlucky to put your left foot on the floor when you got out of bed. Incredible, huh? How all these phrases and words we use today have all this history attached.’
I look at him blankly. Is he being nice? I mean, he seems genuine, but I can’t be sure.
‘How interesting,’ I say tightly.
Remember: new leaf, Emily. New leaf.
‘Isn’t it?’ agrees Spike, seeming not to notice my sarcasm.
‘I think that’s partly why I became a journalist—’ He breaks off, and smiles self-consciously.
‘Sorry, I’m boring you, aren’t I? I can see the glazed look in your eyes and you’re thinking, What is this bloke going on about?
But once I get started I just can’t help it.
I find the English language fascinating. Don’t you?’
Staying mad at him is proving harder than I thought.
I’m beginning to realise that Spike and I are much more similar than I would like.
Feeling my defences rapidly melting, I fleetingly consider diving into a discussion about literature and authors and writing.
Then I remember. ‘pretty dull . . . average-looking . . . and she’s American. ’
Immediately, my defences go back up again.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I reply tartly. ‘After all, I’m an American.’
If he’s got any idea what I’m referring to, he doesn’t show it. ‘You don’t think we speak the same language?’ he asks with interest.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Really? Why?’
OK, now would be a good time to change the subject, advises the little voice inside my head. Except the thing is, I’ve never really been one to listen to advice, not even my own.
‘I don’t say mean things about people,’ I blurt.
Spike flinches and a deep crevice splits his brow. I brace myself for an angry, defensive outburst. Well, he started it, I think to myself, somewhat childishly.
But it never happens. Instead, the storm passes and his offence dissolves into an astonishingly wide smile. The kind of smile I had no idea he had in him. It hugs the corners of his eyes, flares his nostrils and stretches out his mouth to show off those straight white teeth of his.